Nothing. Nothing behind, nothing ahead. It's a harsh world to be born into. And indeed it's a harsh world he's seen. To be born, stillborn, truncated and futile. All is soft around him now; he watches his hands, now soft in idle stretches and stenches. No accomplishments or accomplices, save for his soft wife with her soft spiteful, spunkful breath. 'What has she been up to?' he wonders. Her eyes beguile malice with doom, speaking of doomful falls from grace. His is to be punished, for nothing more than having endured time with her, beside her, besides her.
He wonders, he fails, he settles for the here and now. Faithless climbs and falls swirl into brackish black. Coffee or tea? Who cares? Then comes the waitress. And love for lovely legs, so soft, so slick. How can they be-how so perfect? How are they not for him? To surround. To adore. To discard prison for. To divulge his pension and penchant for lacy lingerie. Oh fuck. What a world is his?
Anyway.
Fresh eggshell ovides flutter past his baleful, bashful eyes. Cupfuls o' Buxomflesh, not menu-offered but all the while present to pass between them. It's his wife and himself. But wait, they're not married; they are marginalized and merged in the eyes of the law and God.
Crucifix to bend and abash their union, to turn its back and sneer at old impossible crippled mechanics of forgotten machines. Pale men of sacred cloth pale still more at such squanderings of future grace in death of those slipped past stages of salvation. Men of slipped discs and sharp tongued wives. Fuck it all. I hate you all so much. Bastards.
"Harold! What the hell are you on about?" She leans forward and squeezes his hand, and none too gently at that.
He starts! He sits upright in his plastic, sticky insult of a chair. "Sorry Dear. It's the pain meds. They make me drift." She settles back, smugly satisfied. The mighty are meek now a days. Unneeded men have settled their wrenches-have folded their coveralls. Wrenches rust in garages where old men do mutter. Okay, okay, he tells himself he's not all that old.
"Harold! Shut Up!" The whole of the customers turn to see the source of blatherings.
"Oops, was that out loud?" He knows it was.
"One more outburst and you can forget about breakfast." She means it too, but not for the mumblings of her husband-much more for his oglings of the sex-ful waitress who doesn't wait all that long between fuckings up high and hard, up into her greedy, coveted pink, or so assumes the wife.
Harold steals to glance at this apron full of hard packed, young sex flesh far too often and openly. She is a human, young and lucky to be more fuckable than most. All-and she is all, with her face and body holding lesser mortals to task. Why her? Who the Hell knows.
But stare he does. Who the Hell cares? His wife does, that's for sure. She cares the hell out of it. She folds her arms over her chest, regarding Harold dimly as he beams up at the waitress. She takes his order. He could have said "The usual" but he didn't. How transparent of him. Then she leaves. Helen catches the wake and waft of blonde arousal. That damn waitress irks her in all the flirting. Fishing for tips, with her sexy lips and swiveling hips. Her scent of sex would stir other motives. What the Hell?
"As if you could handle her." The words of his wife slap the joy from his face. Shows what she knows. Young waitress Colleen has got the goods. 'Good for a go', thinks Harold. Oops, he said it out loud. Thinking quickly, he raises his mug to sip coffee. "Mmm, good stuff."
Breakfast goes down nice and easy. His erection doesn't. He aims to tease. Colleen returns, "Want more?" she winks, sloshing the coffee decanter. He turns outward, knees together, erection tenting impressively in his pants-a sweaty idiot dog does pant for her approval. How she does notice. He's still pretty smooth, at that.
"I sure do," he whispers, blushing down at his throbbing pride of prides.
Colleens cleavage reddens. Coffee isn't the only hot fluid she dispenses. Her panties do dampen.
******
The ride home finds them together, with Helen driving, with Harold dreaming of better times: Better Ever-Ready erections he could always count on; a hot desiring girlfriend adoring him; a bright future ahead. All gone. Still here. All fucked up but still here.
Helen turns up the radio and sings along. Harold cringes at her warblings. His erection is a thing of the past again. Gone but not forgotten.
Just a little more time to put in today-then time to dream of Colleen. Pain meds allow for great times dreaming of sexy girls named Colleen. He can't get there soon enough. Ahh, nap time. Mmm, Colleen.
******
"Ungh! Oh fuck! Harold, It's been so long. You're so long and hard!" Helen's dowdy housecoat flaps, as does her hot white flesh against his. Harold isn't fully awake-just caught sailing in a dream at full mast.
"Colleen! Colleen! Oh! I love you!" he moans, Helen's juddering hips secure in his grasp. Everything grinds to a halt. Possessive wife-pussy clenching his rod ends his dream.
"What!" shouts Helen, shaken for the moment. Their eyes meet, Harold's are wide and unsure. Helen's are not.
"Don't talk. I was almost there," fumes Helen. She pushes away, releasing his throbbing, gleaming prick from herself. She leaves it behind her, jutting up and abandoned. She settles her dripping crotch down on his face, adjusting to her position of dominance perfectly. "There. Put your mouth to good use. Lick me." And he does. Who he thinks about however, is his.
"Mmm, Colleen!" he moans into Helen's twitching snatch, licking and sucking at her intimate pussy flesh. Helen doesn't hear; she enjoys the vocal vibrations under her, pleasing her to no end as she humps away. She grinds her fleshy pussy swells into his open mouth, making him lap at her juicy clitty, ordering him to suck her off.
She's on the ragged edge of losing it, bouncing and rolling her sex over his lips and tongue. Her juice dribbles into his ears. His cock weaves and waves around in the dark-a blissed out drunk heading home, mindlessly stirring and spoiling to spill.
Helen grabs the hair of his head, pulling, urging his tongue up into her. She contorts her face, sighing and crying out. He crosses his thighs around his cock, gripping it, clenching it towards satisfaction. She really is beautiful.
"Ahh! Mmm! Suck my cunt! I'm your waitress Harold! Suck Colleen's hot pussy!" she squeals, humping his face, using him, fucking his face with short, rapid, circular thrusts, parting his gently pursed lips with insistent jabs of her stiff clitty. A gasp escapes her. She heaves through her thigh churning orgasm, riding high, proudly in claim of her man, triumphant on her husband's face. Dirty girl.
"Helen!" Harold volleys spurts of fucksome sauce. A hot spurt splats dead center between her shoulder blades; they converge in reply. She smiles; she leans back. Palms pressed together, arms stretching overhead, she yawns. She rolls off onto her side, sighing, nestling her cheek in the shallow of his hip. Silky curls of her long brown hair sketch across his ticklish abdomen.
She parts her heavy thighs. Wedging one knee under his shoulder, she urges him to rest his head near the hot sanctity of her sex mound. She gently lowers her upper thigh over his cheek. Harold caresses her, reveling in their intimate union. He's moved to kiss the downy flesh of her yielding lady-belly. He shivers at her delicate handlings and lickings of his cock.
This is how they were once. Time is expensive.
*****
Twenty years ago, or more, or less, Harold was a man to be reckoned with, but not so much now anymore. He follows Helen into the Breakfast Cafe. She looks back, catching him nodding an approval at their usual waitress's car, parked in the usual spot. He looks lovingly at Colleen's high heeled footprints fixed in the grime of the city snow. He imagines soothing the girl's sore feet after her busy waitress day. Helen reaches back for his hand. "Harold! Don't dawdle."
But there sits a new man in their usual spot, so they sit elsewhere. Helen helps him out of his coat and hangs it about the back of his chair. Harold is put out; he likes to sit at the same table each time. He casts a sour eye at the new man. He's not a very 'new' man exactly; he's Harold's vintage, or so they suppose. Like Harold, he has designs on Colleen, that much is obvious.
Breakfast service is interrupted-Swap! The 'new man' smacks Colleen's haughty ass cheeks. This will not do. To Harold, he might as well have pissed on the Mona Lisa-so is his reaction.
"You Bastard! Keep your shit-hooks to yourself! You ugly shit!" Harold hacks these words into the man's face while clutching a fistful of bastard beard cheek in his hand.
The man, eyes wide, takes a hard swipe at him. "Bugger off!" Harold lets go, dodging the assault to his midsection.
"Harold! For god's sakes! Can't we have a quiet breakfast!" sputters Helen, dragging him back to their table, her eyes pleading an apology to the new man. Colleen looks on, tray contents about her feet, hands over mouth, with nipples swelling. The two men glare on. Breakfast resumes wordlessly. Bile ruins the flavor.
Helen walks him back to the car as one would a simple child, saying, "You wait here. You forgot something." She pauses in the lobby to write a note. Harold invents excuses for the pains in his chest. Snow falls hypnotically. She returns. "Honestly Harold, I can't take you anywhere." She tosses his coat over him. "You'd forget your head if it wasn't screwed on."
*****
Colleen, having recovered from morning events, prepares to finish her shift. She sits applying crimson lipstick at the staff table. The busboy, grinning, drops a note in front of her. He waits, expecting her to read it to him. He can manage some words, but doesn't know much english.
Crossing her legs, she smiles and says, "Well, what have we here?" The busboy waits. Colleen reads, "Great service, sorry I forgot your tip, I'll fix it tomorrow." The busboy rolls his eyes and leaves; Colleen shrugs. Blushing profusely, Colleen slips her hand down under the table to her parted thighs, stopping just short of her pussy. Flustered, she looks from side to side-no, no one noticed.
What the note really says: "You are the most beautiful woman I know. May we meet in private? Friday at 8 at the corner pub? Sorry I forgot your tip. I will make it up to you." This isn't some rare note of proposition-not for Colleen especially. She is outraged by an old ass slapper thinking he can date her up after humiliating her at work. Why she's so aroused-she can only wonder.
The note couldn't have been from her Harold. He left a good tip behind, hidden from his wife, under his coffee mug, as usual. Something must be done.
*****
"So, I must say, you sure have it bad for that Colleen person," says Helen, handing over the car keys. It's Harold's last vestige of dignity-the passing of the car keys. Oh boy.
"I don't know. She reminds me of you when we first met." Dreadfully familiar sights shuttle by.
"You could have got yourself killed today. Try minding your own business." Helen strokes his hand. He pulls away, but not right away. She shakes her head and walks to the house.
"Yes dear." He remains behind, in the passenger seat of his car. He sits, admiring her lively, lovely derriere. She is his, all big and beautiful, she is his. Dropping the keys into his coat pocket, he finds a note. His eyes widen. His erection looms. His lips tremble.
